Here For You
by cyberwulf
Summary: PostChosen. Who can Giles turn to when it's all too much to bear? GO implied


Title: Here For You

Author: Cyberwulf

Rating: FRT

Spoilers: Up to and including Chosen.

Summary: Post-Chosen. Who can Giles turn to when it's all too much to bear?

Disclaimer: Rupert Giles and other Buffy characters created by Joss Whedon. The ritual Giles performs at the start of the story is taken from Bram Stoker's Dracula.

Feedback: Feed the Wulf and click the button!

Author's Note: Set in the same continuity/universe as Game Face, but it's not necessary to read it before reading this one.

The boy's name was Matthew. He was tall, over six feet, with copper hair gelled into a style the younger generation called a Hoxton fin. Giles knew him as well as any teacher knew his students – name, academic performance, family background, little snippets of information about his likes and dislikes. Matthew excelled at Tae Kwon Do, but had failed his last two belt tests in judo. Not judged proficient with a sword or crossbow, he carried a baseball bat with him when he went on patrol. He was a faithful Millwall supporter, and a fan of those awful computer games where one earned points by killing people. He helped his gran with her shopping on the weekend.

On his neck were two puncture marks.

Matthew was nineteen years old.

Giles took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

The stillness of the mortuary was broken as Latif, the stocky, dark-skinned weapons instructor, stepped into the room and closed the door quietly behind him. He'd been out tonight, too – leading another group of teenagers into the jaws of death. Giles turned towards him, glad to look away from the body for a few minutes.

"Did, did you bring –"

Latif nodded, holding up a sports bag. "Yes."

Giles nodded back, his mouth suddenly dry.

Latif laid the bag carefully on the floor, and squatted by Giles' chair.

"Rupert, are you sure you want to do this yourself?" he asked quietly.

Giles gazed at the corpse. At the dead child lying on the slab.

"Yes," he answered. "It was my responsibility to keep him safe."

Latif gave him a long look. "If you're sure."

Wordlessly, Giles unzipped the bag and started to unpack the supplies. He hadn't had many opportunities to practise this ritual in Sunnydale. Grieving relatives wouldn't have taken kindly to a stranger interfering with the body of a loved one. But this time the victim came from two Watcher families. They would understand.

Giles picked up the stake and the mallet, and positioned both over the heart. Latif finished putting the wolfsbane into Matthew's mouth, and stood behind the head, both hands on the body's shoulders.

Giles brought the mallet down on the stake, forcing it through flesh and muscle. As soon as the wood pierced the heart, the corpse stiffened and struggled to sit up. Latif leaned down as hard as he could, putting all his weight on Matthew's shoulders. Matthew's face contorted into vampire ridges, and a hissing, gargling noise came from his throat as the wolfsbane foamed in his mouth. Giles looked away and pounded the stake as far in as he could.

The corpse went limp again, the face returning to normal as the demon was exorcised. Giles stepped back, breathing hard, and picked up the axe.

Latif stood in front of him. "I'll do it."

"No." Giles clenched his hands on the wooden handle to keep them from shaking. "I can do it."

Latif gazed at him for a few seconds, then turned away and removed the gold crucifix from around Matthew's neck. It flashed briefly in the fluorescent lighting, and Giles suddenly wanted to laugh. What kind of loving, Father-God would let all this go on?

He got into position, testing the weight and balance of the axe in his hands for a few moments, before swinging the weapon in a slow practice arc that stopped at Matthew's neck.

One stroke. It had to be clean.

The blade sliced through air, flesh, muscle and bone, almost bouncing out of Giles' hands as it hit the metal slab. Matthew's head rocked backwards and a few millilitres of blood oozed out of his neck. Giles turned away, sour vomit burning the back of his throat.

"You, you can call the mortuary boys in now," he managed, leaning the axe against the wall. He wasn't terribly keen to look at the blade. "Make him look…"

"Yes," Latif replied. He touched his arm as he walked past. "Rupert – is there someone…" He broke off as Giles glared at him, then licked his lip and started again. "Under the circumstances…I don't think you should be alone."

"Really?" Giles asked coldly, folding his arms. "And what, exactly, are you afraid I'll do if left to my own devices?"

Latif held his ground.

"I think you will go home and drink too much," he replied, a note of anger creeping into his voice. "And then tomorrow you will only feel worse."

Giles stepped forward, dropping his arms to his sides. Latif stayed where he was, in no mood to be intimidated by the taller man.

"What I do in private is none of your concern," Giles said softly. "Understand?"

"If it puts lives in danger it is my concern," Latif snapped.

The words were like a blow to the stomach. Giles clenched his fists, ignoring the sudden cold feeling that went through him.

"Take that back," he growled.

Latif looked away, but said nothing.

Trying to quell his alarmingly strong urge to hit the other man, Giles grabbed his coat from the chair and headed for the door.

"What good will it do, Rupert?" Latif shouted after him. "Tell me that!"

Giles stalked down the hallway to the exit. He paused in the doorway, watching for anything waiting for him in the dark. Then he walked smartly towards his car.

He slid into the driver's seat, pulling the door shut behind him. A glowing neon light in a shop window caught his attention. Giles looked up at the sign for the off-licence, and was overtaken by a wave of self-loathing. He pulled off, revving the engine more than was necessary, causing the tyres to squeal against the tarmac.

Streetlights turned the city orange, bathing pedestrians and vehicles in their rusty glow. Boy racers cruised through the streets, Civics and 106s painted with flames and faux graffiti, undersides illuminated by blue and green and red neon light. Giles could hear their stereos blasting from their rolled-down windows; techno beats, thumping bass lines, angry young men screaming about death and rebellion. The kind of stuff many of his charges listened to before heading out on patrol.

He'd told the rest of them, like he'd told them the last time, that they didn't have to come out anymore; an attempt on his part to relieve them of their responsibilities, and absolve his own guilt.But tomorrow night, they'd all be there. If he ordered them to stay home, they'd turn up anyway. It was their duty. Their Calling.

Matthew's T-shirt had said No Fear.

He pulled over sharply, incurring the displeasure of the taxi driver behind him. Giles locked the doors and fumbled in his pockets for his mobile phone.

The phone rang and rang. It was late; she could be out, or in bed. Maybe both. He was just about to hang up in despair when she answered.

"Hello?"

"Olivia." Giles licked his dry lips. "It, it's me."

"Rupert?" He heard her clear her throat. "It's gone one."

"Yes, I know," he answered awkwardly. "I'm sorry, I – could – could I come round?" He took a deep breath in the hope of slowing his racing heartbeat. "I need to see you."

"Rupert, is everything all right?"

"No." He swallowed. "No, it's not."

There was silence on the line for what seemed like an eternity.

"All right," she said at last. "I'll be waiting."

"Thank you," Giles replied. "I'll see you soon." He hung up, tossed his phone on the passenger seat, and set off.

Giles rang the bell and waited anxiously on the doorstep, glancing around for anything lurking in the shadows. Finally he heard footsteps approaching, and then the sound of locks being undone. The front door swung open.

"Ru-"

He stepped over the threshold before she could say anything further.

"Don't invite me, Liv," he said, wrapping his arms around her. He thought of a frail old woman, mad with grief, welcoming the thing that had killed her grandson and taken over his corpse. "Never invite me in after dark."

"You're trembling," Olivia murmured in surprise. She pulled back a little so she could look at him. "What's happened?"

Giles swallowed.

"Someone's died."

He waited on the sofa while Olivia made the tea. He'd passed on her offer of a large whiskey, though he'd been sorely tempted. Latif's words had hit a nerve. The younger Watcher was right. He couldn't keep drinking himself to sleep, tossing back painkillers like Polo mints to get through the day. He'd soon be no use to anyone – least of all the children he was supposed to guide and protect.

Olivia returned from the kitchen, bearing two mugs of hot tea. She set them on the coffee table and sat down beside him, silk dressing gown rustling against the sofa cushions.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked quietly.

Giles wrapped his hands around the warm mug of tea.

"There were five of us," he said softly. "Two Watchers, two Slayers, and myself." He paused, fighting to keep calm as he recalled the awful scene. "We got separated while fighting a vampire gang. By the time we realised Matthew was missing, it was too late. He'd fed from them." He put the mug down and folded his hands in his lap. "He'd… he'd been turned."

Olivia looked at the table. "What did you do?"

Giles began to clean his glasses. "We took him to the Council mortuary, and I chopped his head off to keep him from rising and murdering his family."

Olivia didn't say anything.

Giles took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He stared at the table, seeing Matthew lying on the slab, pale and dead. "I was supposed to protect him."

Olivia put her mug down and rested her hand on his knee. "I'm sure it wasn't your fault, Rupert," she murmured.

Giles shook his head slightly. "They're barely more than children," he answered. "We, we do our best to train them, but every so often age and inexperience…" He broke off, eyes suddenly hot. "And there's never anything I can do, except tell –"

He burst into tears, burying his face in his hands. Olivia put her arm around him as he struggled to stop crying. At last he got his emotions back under control, wiping away the last few selfish tears. He was weeping for himself, not for Matthew.

Olivia's hand was on his thigh, stroking up and down.

"I'm sorry," Giles mumbled. She didn't need this. She'd run six thousand miles away from his world before. What did he think he was doing, thrusting it on her now?

Olivia leaned his head on her shoulder.

"It's all right."

Giles closed his eyes. She was stroking his hair and neck, and it felt nice. Regrets murmured at the edge of his consciousness, but he pushed them away. It didn't matter. He needed her and she was with him. That was more than enough.

"It's getting late," Olivia remarked quietly.

Giles lifted his head and looked at his watch. "Oh. Yes, I…I should get going…"

"Come on." Olivia stood up and took his hand. "I've got a spare toothbrush you can borrow."

He opened his mouth to tell her that she didn't have to let him stay, but before he could say anything she kissed him, long and slow, one hand caressing the small of his back.

"Olivia…"

She cupped his cheek, and smiled. "That's what friends are for."

(End)


End file.
